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343.

C. M.

Wilson.

Angels.
273

O, not when the death-prayer is said,

The life of life departs;

The body in the grave is laid,

Its beauty in our hearts.

At holy midnight, voices sweet,

Like fragrance, fill the room;

And happy ghosts, with noiseless feet,

Come brightening through the gloom.

We know who sends the visions bright,

From whose dear side they came;

We veil our eyes before Thy light,

We bless our Father’s name!

This frame, O God, this feeble breath,

Thy hand may soon destroy;

We think of Thee, and feel in death

A deep and holy joy.

Dim is the light of vanished years

In glory yet to come;

O idle grief, O foolish tears,

When Jesus calls us home!

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